Hate
by the fish is dead
Summary: He hated life. He hated himself. Now, awaiting death, he deals with possibly the only good thing that ever happened to him. Warning: explicit language.


_I've got another confession to make_

_I'm your fool_

The chains were cold against his skin, still lukewarm from the coat he had been forced to shed mere hours ago. His limbs were curled into a ball, and he hugged his knees tightly, trying to unnoticeably shrink away from the impending darkness that was quickly filling the small cell. He could barely handle being alone – he did not need the dark right now.

He also did not need the cold, the bars framing his small room; the still stonewalls surrounding him and the leak in the ceiling, which was slowly letting drips of rainfall onto his head. But what he did need, he had no hope of ever having.

He turned his face to the wall, near ashamed of his own thoughts. If was not the time to be thinking about this – right now he needed to think of a way to escape. That's what he needed. Now he only had to convince himself of it.

But the thought of her kept plaguing his mind, yet again. Her face floated nightmarishly over his subconscious, her glittering smile blinding his eyes. He didn't love her, he never would. But right now, more than anything, he needed her.

"Fuck."

_Everyone's got their chains to break_

_  
Holding you_

The memories of the trial still burned painfully in his mind. Images of her face, blank and indifferent, were blows to his already beaten body. She had stood in the back of the crowd, her eyes watching the Wizgamont carelessly announce his sentence. The crowd cheered, she kept her head high, her expression never changing. People rushed past her, shouting and yelling mercilessly with newfound joy. She still stood, not letting herself get caught up in the crowd. But just when it seemed like she would never go, she turned and left. She didn't love him, she never would.

He blinked, and the image of her smiling disappeared, only to be replaced with one of her in her school robes, her hair looking annoyingly unmanageable, and her face set, determined. Her friends surrounded her, their faces goofy, and mocking. They loved her. They would be there when she needed them, and she would be there when they needed her. It was an unbreakable bond. It had no force, no want, but for her, for them, it would be the strongest of all. They were not meant for anything greater but each other. Fate had brought them together, and fate couldn't dare take them apart.

_I was to weak to give in_

_Too strong to lose_

He was pathetic. How had this simple, pathetic thing elevated so fast from nothing? He hated her, _hated_ her. Of course, he hated everyone – until he didn't. But this was different. He didn't feel any less contempt towards her then he did seven, five, or three years ago. She still made his temples ache with irritation, still caused his ears to nearly burst every time she opened her over-large mouth. If anything, he hated her more now. Nothing had changed. Perhaps that was because he had always known, in some form, that there was more to what he felt than hate and annoyance. But never had he let himself think that. He was strong that way; if he didn't want to think about something, he didn't.

She had looked so bold that day. It had seemed almost like a switching of ways, at that time. She had found him in a matter of minutes, battered, bruised, and a look of complete hate and betrayal of his face. He had hated how she found him like that – so helpless. He was always the impenetrable one – how could she, a mere child, see him like that! At first, he suspected she would just kill him on the spot – she may not have been a particularly powerful witch, but no one could deny her brilliance. There was no doubt in his mind that she could do the deed. And, most likely, would. Then, and still now, no one thought him anymore than a traitor. She should have killed him. He would have.

_My head is giving me life or death_

_  
But I can't choose_

But she didn't. She stood still, her face set, staring at him thoughtfully. This was the only time he could remember her ever looking him in the eye. He had once delighted in the fact that she couldn't bare to look to eye-to-eye with him. Now, though, he regretted thinking that. As he studied her quiet, brown eyes he suddenly knew there was more to her than he had ever before thought. Her eyes shone with strength, cunning, and bravery. She was not the weak little girl had he anticipated all these years. As another jolt of pain wrenched through his body, he drew his eyes quickly down to the floor, and snarled angrily at her. But she surprised him yet again. Instead of recoiling from his words like a blow to the face, she stepped forward. He blinked, and glared up at her. What was she doing? How dare she near him? His hatred for her peaked, and he felt himself subconsciously lash out. He couldn't stop himself now. He was blind through the acute pains rushing through him, and for his dislike of the situation. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

"Stop."

_Has someone taken your faith?_

_  
Its real, the pain you feel_

The memory he had been living came to a sudden halt, as he realized the words had come from his own lips. He reached for them, touching his fingers softly upon the cracked, dry surface. He needed water. He needed sleep.

Half consciously, he found himself lying down rigidly on the cold floor. He stared up at the bleak ceiling, willing his heavy eyes to shut.

He wished she had never come that day. He wished she had left him to die. It would be better for everyone, really. He wouldn't be here, rotting, in a freezing cell, and everyone else would have got their death wish for him fulfilled. Better all around.

But no. She had quickly disarmed him, and threw him to the ground, the rage in her eye almost as powerful as the rage in his. But didn't yell, didn't once draw her wand. She talked, quietly and softly, so that he had to strain his ears to catch her every word. She spoke about how she knew of his innocence, and how that she knew of a plan to get him away from society, at least until there was a way to get everyone to believe them. He just sat through it all, listening silently. What else could he do? He knew he couldn't hurt her. Even if he wanted to, he didn't have it in him. Finally, her speech ended, and they were both greeted with a long silence. She stared sternly down at the floor, while he looked up at the ceiling, his breathing heavy and strained. After what seemed like an unbearable amount of time had passed, she turned to him, her eyes dangerous. And, for the first time in his life, he had faltered under _her _gaze.

_The life, the love_

_  
You'd die to heal_

A loud crash awakened him from his sleep. He sat up straight, squinting into the darkness. Footsteps thumped loudly down the spiral staircase to his left, with a pair of echoing smaller ones following along behind.

It was not long before a guard's face was illuminated in the moonlight in front of his cell. He did not look happy.

"Visitor." He spat the one word out, as though a sentence was not worth the effort. The guard turned, unveiling the visitor, and grunted at her, "Five minutes."

The silhouette of the woman nodded slowly, her tangles of hair bobbing along beside her. The guard quickly left, leaving the two of them alone.

He stood still in the cell, still not daring to look at the woman a few feet before him.

The woman moved quickly towards the bars, looping her hands delicately through them. She stared at him, her eyes sharp, until he finally turned and looked.

He shakily sat up, his cold eyes narrowing. Hers narrowed as well, and she chewed on her bottom lip. She knew he hated that.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

_The hope that starts _

_  
The broken hearts_

Even to him, his voice sounded weak. He hated it.

Her eyes met his, and for a moment he cared whether he lived or died. He cared whether he would see what would become of her. But, in a flash, it was gone.

"I don't believe you." Her voice was low, and she was doing a good job of covering her emotion. He, who had so prided himself on seeing right through people, could not even see what she was feeling right now.

He stared coolly at her, his expression blank – matching hers. She was staring determinedly up at the ceiling, her small, pale hands clutching tightly to the thick iron bars before her.

"You are not a horrible person, much as you'd like everyone to believe. Especially yourself. You hate yourself." Her eyes dimmed, as though someone had finally turned out the lights. "You are not a horrible person. You didn't do it."

He shifted in his place, staring holes into wall beside him, his sharp black eyes sparkling with cold fury. She was right. She was always right. She could see through him like no one else could. She saw through his barriers, and unleashed his deepest fears. Was he that invisible? That predictable? She scared him, seemingly without even trying.

"You still haven't answered my question." He replied with no emotion, pretending to ignore all she just said. He wanted to see the hurt on her face.

But still she looked up blankly, her jaw set. "I am here to ask you why you did this to yourself." Her expression tightened, and for a moment it looked like her was face about to crumble. But he knew better.

_You trust, you must_

_Confess_

"I didn't do anything to myself." He savored denial. It cost him nothing; yet it always served its purposes. Lies were always better than the truth.

"Yes, you do," she argued, her eyes faintly showing that spark he had grown so used to hating. Yet, for a moment, he had almost forgotten to hate it. "You locked yourself up in here, and threw away the key. You turned yourself in for a crime you didn't commit."

His eyes snapped upwards, meeting hers firmly. He glared at her, a glare that would make most young adults like her start to cry like a baby. He would know. But yet, she glared right back, the fiery anger in her finally surfacing once more. "And _why_, I might ask, are you so sure I didn't commit this crime? We both know I am more than capable."

A shrill, patronizing shout of laughter echoed through the eerie chamber. She stood her ground, looking at him in disbelief. "You are _not_ 'more than capable'. You could never have done this. You are not as tough as you seem." Her grip on the iron bars tightened. Her voice became softer, and her eyes once again dimmed. "And you loved him."

He felt a stab of pain at his heart, and quickly turned his head away – regret and raw sorrow throbbing at his temples. He had been like a father to him. And, true, he could not be held responsible for the crime, but the fact remained – he was the culprit. And that fact alone would weigh him down for the rest of his life.

He had been the only person he had actually loved.

And he had killed him.

_I'm getting tired of starting again_

_Somewhere new_

"Why can't you ever seem to leave me alone?" he snapped at her, suddenly vividly aware of her distractingly large brown eyes staring at him.

"You don't want me to," she snapped back, not moving her eyes from him once. He turned, wiping all images of his late mentor from his mind, and glared at her with as much malice as he could possibly express.

"Oh, believe me, I do," he growled, watching the moonlight shift, forcing her face into the shadows.

"No, you don't. You need me here right now. I'm the only goddamn chance you have." Her low, dangerous tone of voice reminded him, for about the hundredth time, that she had changed. She was not a girl anymore, however much he tried to ignore that fact. She wouldn't put up with him anymore. "I can get you out of here."

He sneered. "Not even _you_, I'm afraid, can manage that miracle. Now go away."

Even in the darkness, he could see her bright eyes shine with fury. "Do _not_ tell me what to do. Do you _want_ to live the rest of your life out in this grimy cell?"

"Maybe I do. But, admit it, Granger, you can't change this. You know you can't." He drew his eyes down, not willing to view her facial expression. He hated that look of pity.

"I know." She said, confidently. He was surprised. "I can't do anything about this, but you can." Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling, studying it carefully. "Tell them the truth."

"No." He was tired. He had given up on himself ages ago. He had let it go. He couldn't understand why she couldn't, either.

"Why not? Do you feel you need to die? Do you think you deserve it? No! No…" she lowered her voice, and her face went blank. "Tell them the truth, Severus."

_Were you born to resist or be abused?_

_  
I swear I'll never give in -- I refuse_

He shifted, his eyes staring uncomfortably out the barred hole in the roof that was seemingly supposed to be a window. He hated whenever she called him that. It was so close, so intimate. He hated that. He was Snape. Snape the git, Snape the bad guy, Snape the dark, lanky teenage boy alone in the corner. He was not Severus. Especially not Severus the friend. It was not him.

But still, somehow, it fit. Not evenly, but like a pair of sharp edged rocks that had been glued together and managed somehow to not fall apart. It was like nothing he had ever been before. It was most inconvenient, to be sure, but there was something there he had never felt before. Something like he had felt when he was with Dumbledore, but larger. Better. And it was new, too new.

And Severus Snape hated new.

And so, he hated the feeling that jabbed at his heart as he spoke, "I don't care, Granger. I don't care that I'm about to die, I don't care if I deserve it or not, and I don't care if the whole world ends because of it! And, I especially don't care that you've come all this way just to try and convince me to tell them that, in actuality, Dumbledore was the one who persuaded me to kill him. I. Don't. Fucking. Care." He stopped, knowing that was it. He had crossed the line.

She stared at him, her brown eyes wide and her expression slightly shocked. However, she collected herself quickly, turning away from him. Her shoulders were still, and her stance tall. Then, without another word, she turned and left, leaving him alone, once again.

He sat still, barely breathing. He told himself repeatedly he had finally gotten what he wanted – to be alone. After all, he worked better alone. He always had. Not that he had much of a choice. Until, that is, now.

She had been right there, waiting, and he had ruined everything. He could tell himself it was for the best. He could say that he would never think of her again. But the fact remained – he needed her. She would never be his.

Not that he would ever want her to be.

_Is someone getting the best _

_The best, the best, the best of you?_

* * *

Best of You title and lyrics belong to the Foo Fighters, not me.

If you like it, or have any constructive critizism, pleeeeeeease review!


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